“I—” I start to argue that I’m being precise rather than argumentative, but her phone rings.
It’s not a normal ringtone, but it’s clearly one she recognizes, because her eyes widen and she actually jumps when she hears it.
She lunges for the phone with a clumsiness that’s not at all like her.
“Hello?” There’s a pause while the person on the end greets her. And then, “Hang on a second. Let me go out to my car.”
She’s already moving as she says this, grabbing her bag and umbrella and digging out keys. She pats her pockets absently, looking like someone who’s forgotten something important but is too distracted to care.
“Holly?”
Her gaze darts to mine.
“Oh, right.” She gives her head a shake. It’s apparent I was the something she’d forgotten. “I have to take this. Can you . . .”
She looks around the shop as if surprised to find herself there.
“Is everything okay?”
“I . . . yes. I think.” She gives me a tremulous smile. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Do you need me to lock up? So you can go?”
“Yes! Thank you!” She pulls out the keys Carl left with her and presses them into my hands. She practically runs for the door. And then hurries back. “You need to turn off the electricity. And there are two locks on the back door. A deadbolt and—”
“I think I can figure it out.”
The smile she gives me is luminous and damn near stops my heart.
“Thank you!”
Just like that, she’s gone. And I’m alone in the shop, staring at the door she just left through.
What the hell just happened?
Who had called her this late on a Friday and why?
I’ve never seen Holly looking flustered. But she was definitely flustered.
Why does that bother me?
Is Tavey right? Do I care about Holly?
I don’t know what to think about that.
When she first floated the idea, I’d dismissed it. But what if she’s right?
I push the question aside, and start to clean up. I’m not sure what cleaning procedures Carl usually performs, but sweeping up the hair off the floor seems like a good start. As I sweep, I force myself to look in the mirror. To catalogue the changes.
I don’t usually look at myself. Not ever, if I can help it. Not since I was a teenager, when I spent months—years, maybe—staring at the scar on my cheek. Hating the scar on my cheek. The visible, undeniable proof that my life would never be the same. That I’d lost my parents, my home, and my body as it had once been.
The scar, much like the pain in my leg, was with me always. It had faded over the years. Somedays I barely noticed it, but it was always there in the background. A relentless reminder that the only two people who might have loved me were gone. That I had lived and they hadn’t. That I had no one. Thatmy sisterhad no one. That we were alone in the world.
We weren’t of course, not really. Aunt Jules and Uncle Pete had taken us in. Without children of their own, they had showered us with attention. Tavey—younger, cuter, and eager to please—had welcomed their attention and affection.
I had not.
I know from experience that it’s not only my physical scars that make me . . . unlovable, for the lack of a better word. I know I’m difficult. Arrogant. Rude. And—what was the term Holly used? A jerk face?
